Haimish
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Because it might be the cocaine talking, but he kinda liked it. It reminded him of flannel pjs, Saturday morning cartoons and cluttered kitchen tables.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Netflix's "Van Helsing" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1** **:** I recently got into "Van Helsing" and fell in love with Flesh (Phil) and wanted to examine the moment in 2x03 at the Resistance field hospital with Mohamad. This story is told in Mohamad's point of view.

 **Warnings:** vampires, blood drinking, past trauma, drama, angst, language.

 **Haimish**

 _"Oh, and by the way, we're running out of blood for the wounded. Raoul's making donating mandatory. You don't give, you don't eat."_

 _"I guess I'll get it over with. I hate needles, but I could destroy breakfast. Coming?"_

 _"Uh, later, yeah. Someone should stay here with Mo."_

* * *

He cracked a lid. Everything pleasantly blurred around the edges as the inside of what counted as a hospital these days more or less firmed into view. Getting a flash of spider-webbed rafters and a tin roof that concaved in more than it sloped. Creaking every so often with the wind as he snorted internally.

Five-star accommodations, that was for sure.

Not to mention it still smelled like horse shit.

Or just plain old shit.

Hell if he knew the difference.  
 _  
Shit was shit._

He supposed he shouldn't complain. If Flesh hadn't found him, he'd probably be dead right now. Or one of them. Or something else. All he knew was the wound on his neck where Vanessa had bit him was still throbbing.

 _What was up with that anyway?_

Either way, he still wanted to be able to go back in time and sucker punch his younger self who actually thought the apocalypse happening would be cool.

Speaking of which-

* * *

 _"Listen, Flesh. You can't go around telling people what you used to be. Okay? Just shut up and give._

 _"No, these are good people. They'll understand."_

 _"Wake up to the world that we live in, man. We used to kill people at the hospital for taking too much soup."_

 _"Yeah, but we have to trust someone sometime - otherwise there's no point."_

 _"Listen. Alright? Shut your mouth and roll up your sleeve. ...Just make sure they don't give me any."_

* * *

It only really sank in later.

Flesh had called him "Mo." More than once even. Shortening his name down to a single syllable like it'd come naturally, even though none of the others had called him that. Not even Sam.

He shook his head silently.

He didn't want to think about Sam.

He watched Flesh watch the wall. Maybe for hours. Maybe just for a few seconds. His sense of time was off. Skewed. Backwards. Watching blood drip down the man's face like it had that moment in the hallway in the hospital, only to vanish the next time he blinked. Seeing double. Seeing nothing.

 _Shit._

"Hey, Mo? You alright? Here-"

He hissed when the chill of metal was pressed against his lips. Water. Flesh eased him up, dragging out a groan when the first few droplets missed his lips completely and rolled down his chin. Suddenly desperately thirsty as he drained it quickly, making his throat ache when he coughed and swallowed wrong.

"Easy, slow down or you'll choke."

He would have laughed if he had the energy.

Because somehow that seemed like the least of his problems.

On the other hand, it _would_ be embarrassing.

"We have to get that fever down," Flesh muttered, wetting a strip of cloth and plastering it to his forehead like they were in some pre-industrial era period drama. "I can't believe this is all they have. It's an infection. Not heart surgery."

He coughed. Tempted to remind him that while he'd been off drinking blood, the world had bled. What was left of it anyway. Antibiotics had gone the way of painkillers, anesthesia and insulin in most places.

But he was getting off topic.

What had he been thinking about again?

Oh, right.

Nicknames.

 _Yeah._

Because it might be the cocaine talking, but he kinda _liked_ it. It reminded him of flannel pjs, Saturday morning cartoons and cluttered kitchen tables. Of when he was a kid and he'd creep out into the living room to watch his dad sleep in the recliner – dead to the world after the night shift. It reminded him of the soft way his mother would sing-song his name when she came to tuck him in at night. And how the house always smelled like lavender drier sheets and stale coffee.

"Mo? Mohamad? Hey, look at me."

He rolled his eyes, irritation probably lost on his audience considering it took a moment for him to realize his eyes weren't even open.

"Fine," he croaked, frowning when he realized it was dark again. _Hadn't it just been light out?_ "I wasn't kidding about the Gatorade though."

His dad used to sneak Gatorade into his backpack on the days he knew he wouldn't be able to make one of his basketball games. Pulling more double shifts than he let Mom and Sheema know about after Mom lost her job at the bank and had to bus across the city just to get part-time. The stack of unpaid bills by the landline had only grown taller by the month. But that bottle of Gatorade never stopped appearing. Ever when they couldn't afford it. Even when he should have told him to stop, that he'd buy his own at school. Only he never did.

Flesh just huffed a laugh, helping him tip his head up enough to take another few pulls from his canteen. Lids heavy again as his head slumped down against the crappy pillow _. God, he was tired.  
_  
"Get some rest, okay?"

He inhaled, exhaled, then breathed through the memory that last morning. How his dad hadn't made it home the night before. How the recliner had been empty when he'd jerked awake to the sound of an explosion. How his dad's keys weren't on the hook by the door and nothing but crumpled papers and crappy pens lined the inside of his backpack.

There was a voicemail on his mom's cell she didn't let them hear. But he remembered listening to it second-hand through the crack of the door for days afterwards whenever she locked herself in the bathroom to cry. Able to pick out his father's voice, the way he was out of breath, like he was running. How Sheema was listening beside him in the hall when she was supposed to be helping the neighbors barricade their floor as the entire world tore itself into bloody pieces on the ground below.

"Thanks dad," he murmured softly.

He was half-sleep when Flesh's head came up with a wounded little jerk. But part of him did recognize the pressure of a hand firming around his and squeezing gently as his dreams took him down.

He wouldn't remember saying it in the morning.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. This story is now complete.

 **Reference:**

\- Haimish - homey, cozy and unpretentious.


End file.
